I was sad. I'm still sad. I might see light- an intermission.

Does anyone use these anymore? We're lonely, and this stuff makes us lonelier. It's supposed to be a tool for connecting-- yet it's all trying to sell something. Branding, marketing, networking, blugh. I'm a curmudgeon this way. I want people to see what I've made, possibly consider what I have to say (if any of it is worth considering) and myself to avoid the limelight. I've always been this way, preferring to go unnoticed but let my work speak for me.

I'm struggling though, because no one looks at work. They look at me, at all the sound and little hiccoughs of fury. I don't want to market, I don't want to be a brand. It's the reason art doesn't pay bills for me. It's the reason I work construction and grind my body down prematurely.

But all these reasons are bullshit.

It's because I'm afraid (and healthily so). I'm a type 1 diabetic. I live in the USA. Health insurance and drug prices are a tragedy. That whole "do what you love and follow your dreams" sentiment is for the privileged, or those more capable with their money. Those that have a safety net (or will never need one). I'm not trying to get in a pissing contest about suffering. Everyone suffers uniquely.

I'm complaining and I'm not happy about it. The good news is, things are picking up. I'm excited to work on things again and I'm coming out of a very long battle with very severe depression. I was taken to a print festival- It Came From the Bayou!!!, which was fantastic. I forgot how exciting it was to be amongst people who were working, and passionately at what they do. It was fun to talk techniques and ideas. It kinda rekindled some embers which I hope I'm in turn encouraging into flame. Now I just have to balance that with relationship, children, sleep and money paying labor intensive work.

Updates will be irregular (as usual) but will exist again. 

Apologies for the silence.

Thirteenth Volley: Oodles of Doodles

This might be a bandwidth killer. There are a lot of images here. This is the finished product for the Brooklyn Art House Co-op show. The premise was you could pay to receive a sketchbook from them and had to have it completed by the end of January. It, along with 4,999 other books of various themes will now travel the lower 48 for the next few months. It was kind of scary, working in a theme (Fears and tears), or with one in mind as opposed to trying to modify/bullshit something I already to to fit. I was paralysed in the beginning. Only working when I had an idea. It is a sketchbook after all. It's supposed to be incomplete. The idea of a body trying to fit a theme as opposed to a singular piece. As such, I was much happier about some of the drawings as opposed to the majority of them. And when I started screwing up, I would tell myself to keep going. If you added up all the ugly parts you would at least get something, while not beautiful, at least would be unified.

I figured I'd do a quick, and loose painting for the cover. Inside I stayed with sumi ink and watercolor. I started to tell a story about things I'd been through, like the loss of my sister. I'd falter, backtrack and also look for found imagery to help augment what I was looking for.

Between dead birds and burning trucks, I was looking to convey things loosely. Which was harder than I expected. There's a certain push and pull between expressiveness and context I think. I can make a very angry image, and you can get a sense of the violence of it, the energy that animates it. But I worry that that might be the only thing perceptible at that point because you lose sight of the subject matter. I like to maintain a balance of both.

A lot of the text comes from songs I was listening to at the time. Some stuff you'd expect, like Leonard Cohen. But some things came from surprising places to me. Like Sheryl Crow, or snippets of things I heard on the radio that just seemed to fit at the time. I'm no poet, but I enjoy reading it a lot. And a huge influence on both how I read it, and what I look for stylistically comes from Graham Foust. The book's title, As in Every Deafness, as well as the lines I butchered on the fourth page, come from his poetry. Which is very minimal but has a quiet and frantic desperation to it. Like the last moments of what I'd imagine some one being buried alive feels like - minus the euphoria that comes with asphyxiation.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Pardon the awkward line breaks. Myself and technology are polar opposites. Next time: Painting up dates!

Sixth Volley

I lied. For your reading pleasure, a poem transferred from a napkin. Let me know about revisions as I am open to tweaking things.

Ordering Food at a Vietnamese Restaurant

Is
Still awkward.

(yawn)

When the sunlight dances
Through ferns and Lucky
Bamboo.

The menu
Is a gamble
Is unapproachable

You are.
Less spicy than you seem.

I am
Too pungent. Too heavy.

Every thing unneeded.